


Your Love Belongs to Me

by SittingOnACornflake



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Hamburg Era, M/M, Mention of sex, Smoking, What else would i write, everyone is pan, make that a tag, oh and no period typical homophobia i can't be bothered, side mclennon, starrison, they adorable and they taking it slow, yes yet another hamburg fic why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29246943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingOnACornflake/pseuds/SittingOnACornflake
Summary: Ringo is looking at George playing on the Kaiserkeller stage when he realises it might be more than friendship on his part.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Your Love Belongs to Me

**Author's Note:**

> I abandoned this fic twice and rewrote it multiple times but it’s finally out. of. my. head. I'm SO relieved. It’s not even special or anything, but for reasons unknown to myself it took me four months. I’m finally pleased with it though. I hope you’ll like it too <3

_The Silver Beatles are playing even better than usual today_ , Ringo decides.

He knows they're good; he's played with them as a substitute for their drummer only the night before. They're chaotic and a bit wild, but still it can’t be denied: they're going somewhere, and it might very well be _to the toppermost of the poppermost_ as John likes to put it.

Still, even if he’s rather enjoying himself, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Paul who asked him – with a commending tone – to come tonight and sit at the front table. Ringo hadn’t asked any question. He’d logically assumed Pete would have to leave during the gig and the others needed him to fill in. Since he didn’t mind in the slightest, why would he have dragged his feet? He likes these guys, and a bit more money is always welcome.

But it seems he was wrong. So far Ringo has only spent money instead of earning anything. Pete seems ready to play the whole set and Ringo has had the time to down three beers and to idly wonder why on earth he’s here if not to play.

His eyes have been fixed on the shitty Hamburg stage for the whole time, wandering from one bandmate to another.

He's been staring at Pete for a bit, observing the way he plays, comparing their respective techniques. That was pretty innocent; everyone does that.

He has thrown occasional glances at Stuart who's playing with his back turned from the audience. It has made him chuckle, because it seems that even when he’s part of the audience he has to be reminded what it’s like to be the drummer and only see people’s backs. The thought merely crossed his mind before he moved on. Nothing could be more innocent than that.

He's been looking at Paul, then at John, and then back at Paul. From this side of the stage, the chemistry between these two is altogether different. It’s stronger, almost overwhelming. Every time their sweaty faces lean from each side of the mic and they sing, their voices blending perfectly– something happens. It’s obvious. The exact nature of that something still escapes him, but it _should_ be common knowledge to anyone who doesn’t spend all their time with nothing else than Paul and John’s butts in sight, as it was his case until today. _They won't keep it secret for long if they're not more careful_ , he muses. _Or maybe they will, since what's on full display is sometimes less visible than the rest._ But yet again, it’s not Ringo’s fault, and he’s got nothing to feel guilty about.

He’s a lot less innocent, though, when it comes to George. He’s grown quite close to the lad, closer than with the other members of the band. He considers George as a real friend, but that’s not excuse concerning that peculiar matter. He doesn't have any reason to stare at him like that, yet he's the one he's been staring at the most. Can't really explain why. George isn't a drummer from whose technique Ringo might learn a trick or two. George isn't visibly in love with one of his bandmates ... Obviously, _that_ is most unlikely, isn’t it?

No, George is just his plain old self. Engrossed in his playing and standing at one end of the stage; his hands moving effortlessly along his guitar. Sometimes, when he nails a solo, he has that little lopsided smile. Ringo finds that something gets warmer in him when George leans into the mic to sing, face shining from sweat under the limelight. He doesn't quite know what it is. All he knows is that after a while he doesn't even have the strength to look away from George and pretend he's dividing his attention between him and the rest of the band.

George is playing particularly well tonight. Ringo's sure of it after drinking half of his first beer. He’s playing so well that he deserves to be looked at. All those clients who keep their eyes fixed on Paul and John haven’t got a clue about what really matters in life. Ringo shrugs, then takes another swig. George is a great guitarist. Even as someone who doesn’t know more than three chords, Ringo must take some time to appreciate that.

Another beer later, Ringo is still sure George is a great guitarist, but he also has to admit that’s not the reason why he can’t keep his eyes off him. Because he’s not staring solely at George's skilled fingers. There's also his face, his hair, his lanky figure.

George himself sometimes looks at the audience, letting his eyes roam over it. At one point – precisely, of course, precisely while he's singing _The Sheik of Araby_ , it had to be this way – his eyes meet Ringo's and he grins at him when he recognizes his friend.

_Friend. Well._ Maybe it's more than friendship on Ringo's part. That would explain the tightening grip in his chest and the reddening of his cheeks after that smile has been innocently offered.

_Your live belongs to me_ , George sings. Ringo realises the empty bottle is trembling in his hand and puts it down a bit more abruptly than necessary.

Is that true then? Has he been clueless all, mistaking all the affection throbbing in his chest for mere friendship? _It might just be the beer_ , he thinks. But even if his fingers are slightly shaky and even if he hasn’t eaten anything in a few hours, no confusion is possible anymore. It’s not the alcohol that is making him get lost in George’s dark eyes, no. He’s not – _fuck_ – blushing because he’s had one too many. He can’t feel all this – all this _elation, damn_ – just because of German beers that don’t even taste half as good as the beers from back home.

No, it’s not the beer. He’s got feelings for George, that much is clear in his mind. In fact, it’s as if the beer was helping him to think. Everything seems more precise, more colourful; things and people seem to have an unusual shine to them. Especially George. That lad is almost blinding him now. Ringo looks down at his hands that _are_ , indeed, trembling a bit. He hides them in his lap under the table and raises his head towards the stage again.

_Whatever_. Ringo is ready to wear sunglasses for the rest of his life if that’s what it takes to stay beside George.

_The rest of his life …_ wait. Maybe he’s going too fast?

There’s no _maybe_. He is going too fast, and knows it fully well, but as he’s sitting there with the world spinning around him, it feels _right._ It’s a strange thing to think, since five minutes ago he couldn’t have guessed the turn his thoughts would take, but now it’s there and he knows it’s there to stay. He– yes, he’d better admit it now so he won’t hide it away when he’s sober. He’s in love with George, or he soon will be.

There’s no _maybe_ because it’s a certainty. A given. _Maybe he’s already blinded me if I realise this only now._

George chooses that moment to smile at him from upstage. The feeling is exhilarating.

Ringo grins back but he’s screaming internally. It punches him, how much he loves George – no, _likes, let’s say like for at least an hour or two_. He doesn’t want the lad’s smile to fade away, ever, be it aimed at him or other people. He wants George to be happy, and he doesn’t want him happy just for himself. He wants him to get everything he’s always wished for – from daily life to the big dreams people may have told him would never happen. Ringo wants to make sure these spoilsports won’t be right. But …

_What does George want?_ he asks himself fleetingly. He knows him very well, especially considering the amount of time they’ve known each other, but he doesn’t know _everything_. Suddenly he’s feeling the urge to make George sit in a booth and make him talk about himself for hours. Fame? Good guitars? Piles of records? A big house with a garden, maybe? That’s all Ringo can think about for now. He will know soon. The answers are only a few questions away. As soon as he knows, George’s dreams will become his.

But will George share? Will George agree with that, will he welcome Ringo into his life?

Ringo stares at the guitarist onstage, whose eyes are focused on his playing again. His left hand glides rapidly along the neck of his instrument. Music fills the Kaiserkeller. It’s ringing in his eyes and shining in his ears.

Ringo’s love belongs to George. George sang it himself, _hell_. How will Ringo offer him his love? Because he will. And soon. He’s no coward; he will. First chance he gets, that’s a promise he makes to himself.

Right now, though, what he really needs is a breath of fresh air. He spares a last glance in George’s direction and silently slips out of the club. He’s not the only one who’s had this idea; there is already a handful of smokers gathered around the entry. He walks away from them, leaving the main street and slipping into a side alley. Ringo’s eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness of the night and he has to stare longer than usual before he is sure there isn’t any couple making out in the shadows. It’s deserted. The moon, full and white in the cloudless night, is the only source of light. The hum of chatter from the main street is so faint Ringo might as well be making it up. He’s feeling much better here. There’s a light wind, there’s night air – and the alley doesn’t smell like piss like it did the other day, a true improvement. And, of course, there’s also that strangely comforting feeling. George is just on the other side of the wall Ringo is leaning against.

Ringo stands there for a while, enjoying the silence after being in the loud club for so long. Silence isn’t a natural thing anymore. It used to be so back in Liverpool. Possibly. Ringo had never paid attention to it before, he’d taken it for granted until he’d moved to Hamburg where silence is a merchandise among many others. Silence is something that you pursue for money here – or has it always been that way? If you want some quiet, you’ll book yourself a hotel room where you’ll finally be able to snore all you like. Or you’ll pay for an encounter with a prossie who won’t ask you to speak and will be satisfied with little sighs or groans. Or you’ll have a walk around the deserted town at night, because even that is not free. Whether you’ll pay with money or your sleeping time is up to you in the end, but– but you won’t get any of that during the day. You won’t get a break, not even once. Not when you’re in a foreign country and you need the patrons to be pleased with your band and your band to be pleased with you.

There, in this dark alley, Ringo almost feels like a thief. He’d never known you could steal silence before, and yet he’s doing it right now.

Carefully, so that none of his movements won’t disturb the silence or alert the rest of the world, he takes out his cigarettes and fishes one out of the packet. The flicker of his lighter seems so bright in the darkness. It leaves a coloured spot in front of his eyes. He blinks to help it go away as he takes a drag.

Not that he needs to smoke – he just needs something to keep his hands busy. They’re never inactive these days, either making music or love or merely drumming restlessly on his thigh. Just like silence, stillness has become an unaffordable good, and when it comes outside of exhausted slumber it’s not welcome anymore.

He has no idea how long he stays there, but at some point he realises the butt he was holding has not only shrunk so much it barely exists anymore but is also long cold. He’s been lost in his thoughts and he can’t remember what they were about. Probably George. Probably.

Because … yes, there’s that question hanging in the air, curling around him just the smoke did earlier. Why does he love George? Why is he so sure of that fact?

It is at that moment that a figure appears just outside the alley.

“Ritchie? Ringo? Is that you?”

Ringo exhales. He’s recognized that voice instantly. The scouse accent makes him feel at home, but it’s not everything there is to it anymore. Now _George_ means something else, the name has acquired more synonyms. As for the why … _maybe it’s destined to remain a mistery._

“Yes, it’s me,” he says with a firm voice.

He stands still as George makes his way towards him. The guitarist leans against the other wall. There’s … what distance is there between them? George is close enough for Ringo to be content with it, but too far for him to reach were he to raise his arm. But why would he do such a thing?

“You alright?” George asks, almost making him jump. “You look like you’re calculating something.”

“Never mind,” Ringo shakes his head. “Great show tonight.”

George’s face lights up. It makes Ringo feel warm inside. It’s not violent nor painful, it’s a quiet little feeling that he wants to treasure.

“You think so?” George asks.

“Sure. You’re all getting better every day.”

Ringo observes George as he beams in the moonlight.

“And I learnt a new chord just before the show, I can’t wait to use it. Basically, you bar the fifth fret …”

Ringo can’t really picture what George is talking about. It’s still the most interesting thing in the world. A topic leads to another, words flowing seamlessly between them. Everything seems worth being discussed with George. _It’s been like this from the beginning_ , Ringo reflects as he tells his younger friend about the car he left in Liverpool.

It’s only when George stifles a yawn that he realises they might have stayed there for too long.

“Shit. You’ve been playing for hours and now I’m keeping you up – and in the cold at that. You should head back to the club,” he says, already taking a step towards the main street.

George puts a hand on his arm, making him stop dead in his track. “I didn’t yawn because I was bored. I’m just tired.”

“That’s why you need to sleep,” Ringo replies, feeling relieved nonetheless – he can’t do anything against that self-doubting part of his brain.

“I’d rather stay here. You’ve found the best spot anyway – it’s the calmest place I’ve seen in Hamburg for a while. Would be easier to kip here than in our room.”

Ringo slumps back against the wall, shrugging to show George he doesn’t mind staying there for a while if he wants to – euphemisms are oh-so glorious. He wouldn’t mind staying there the whole night if George felt like it.

It’s only then that it occurs to him. “Wait,” he says, “how did you know I was there?”

George looks away for the first time, hunching forward and turning his head in the direction of the club. “Paul,” he groans.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Ringo thinks aloud.

“Paul likes to act as if he’s a mind reader these days,” George says, scrunching his nose. Ringo can barely make out the words.

“Really?” he chuckles. “That would explain his odd behaviour from earlier. Literally asked me to come here and left me wondering why for hours.”

To his surprise, George clasps a hand against his own mouth.

“What?”

George slowly shakes his head in disbelief. “I think he really is one. Paul. A mind reader.”

“I’m not sure I understand …” Ringo hesitates.

George shakes his head again. He sighs and takes out a packet of cigarettes. He considers it for a while and puts it where it came from before finally looking up at him.

“Listen. I’m fed up with Paul, and usually I just ignore it when he says … stuff, but right now he’s got a point. Because he … god, I don’t know how he did it, but he _predicted_ you’d say just that.”

George rakes a hand through his hair. Ringo watches him mesmerized and slaps himself mentally. _Now is not the time to be smitten by his looks. He’s talking to you!_

“And after that he prophesied.”

“He … I’m sorry?” Ringo asks, suddenly hit by the funny turn all this has taken. He really, really should stop staring at George’s gorgeous, tousled hair.

“He prophesied,” George repeats reluctantly as if Ringo is forcing the words out of him. “Brat even said I was to repeat it to you.”

They share a look. “Go on, then,” Ringo finally says. “I’m curious.”

George sighs. “I feared you’d say that.”

Much to Ringo’s surprise, he moves right next to him.

“He said I was to tell you in the ear. Might as well do things right,” George says before leaning even closer.

“He said – I quote – _make him understand too or I’ll do it myself._ And I’ve got plenty of interpretations coming to mind, but I’d rather spare you. What …” George’s voice falters for just a second. “How do you understand that?”

Ringo stares at the wall in front of them in shock. It’s incredible how much his eyes have adjusted to the night now. He can see every brick on this wall, plus the mortar between them. There’s a beetle out of all insects about ten inches from the ground.

_How is that even possible._ How could Paul know before Ringo even thought about it? Most importantly … does it really mean what Ringo thinks it does?

“I gather the _him_ refers to me,” George adds softly, “but it all depends on what you’ve, uh, understood yourself.”

He almost sounds shy. Maybe that means Ringo can be bold. Maybe it’s his time to take a step forward, Signs are surely pointing towards a certain interpretation of George’s behaviour, but even if bloody _Paul’s_ words mean that for Ringo – _oh, stop. Go with it._

“I hate Paul sometimes,” Ringo says.

He’s gonna say it; there’s no cowering from it.

“Same here,” George chuckles.

“But I like you.”

George remains silent for a few seconds. It’s enough for Ringo to start doubting everything he ever thought he knew. Fortunately, it doesn’t last long. George nudges his elbow with his own.

“I like you too. I don’t need anyone’s help to understand that.”

That warm feeling blossoms in Ringo’s chest again. Feeling bold, he puts an arm around George’s shoulders. They’ve never been this close physically, at least not when it was just the two of them.

“Do you think we could try this out? See where it goes?” Ringo asks, choosing the plainest words he can. He doesn’t want to scare George away by letting slip out _let me stay with you forever_ and whatnot.

But George doesn’t seem to have any qualm about it as he makes himself even more comfortable against Ringo.

“I’ve been waiting for this for ages,” he says, and Ringo is able to hear his grin.

“But … Paul said …”

“Paul can boast all he likes, he doesn’t notice _everything._ I really like you.”

“That’s good, because I’m here for a while.”

George turns towards Ringo and grips the collar of his jacket. It looks like a hug, and Ringo is surprised to realise George is laughing.

“Oh, you don’t know how much,” he manages to utter in between to fits of giggles. “Paul might prophesy something else to make you stay with us forever.”

Maybe Ringo can bribe him so the lad actually _will_. He keeps that idea to himself and instead starts giggling too, because George’s laugh is contagious and all this sudden happiness needs a relief of some sort. _George likes me back._

Eventually George’s laughter subsides, but they stay like this for a while longer. It’s too pleasant to move. There, sharing body warmth with George whose breathing is deep and steady again, he realises he’s feeling more at peace than he has in weeks. The proof is right there: his hands rest on the small of George’s back, absolutely still. They’re not tapping the faintest rhythm. George smells of sweat and of George. Ringo doesn’t try to put words on it; he merely stand still and enjoys it.

“Do you think we can stay here forever?”

George holds onto him tighter before taking a small step back so their eyes meet. “I’d love to, but I need to ask Paul to stop prying in my love life.”

_Love life._ Ringo wants to jump in joy around the alley. He doesn’t.

“Do you think I could tag along?”

George links their hands. “Let’s face his victorious face together.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently getting back to all my abandoned wips and it's horrible so expect more messy stuff from me sooner or later aha


End file.
